The loss of a child, through my journey of grief and mental health.

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This photo was taken just over a year ago, the flowers are in bloom again, the grass is loving the warmer weather of Spring and the sun is shining. But you’re not here. I stand at the window and look at the pathway where you once sat and it’s so empty. How can a pathway be empty? Well ours is. It looks like something is missing, and it is. Mummy had to mow the lawn the other day mostly because I couldn’t find the hole to put the washing line in, but the whole time I remembered the days we spent together on maternity leave. You happily watching mummy whilst she mowed the lawn for you to practice crawling on. You were so content, so calm and so happy. You didn’t cry or whinge, you didn’t get upset because mummy put you down, you trusted me. Trusted that you were safe with your mummy. Your eyes the picture of innocence.

Instead today I spend my time biting my nails, itching my hands, picking at my skin, sitting on the bed, twiddling the cotton in my fingers, laying down, turning over, sitting up, laying down, turning over, sitting up and getting up again because I’ve exhausted all possible positions. No position is comfy, I am constantly agitated. I go to the toilet for the fifth time in an hour, either because I’ve forgotten I’ve been or because the anxiety forces me too. My tummy rumbles constantly, I’m sure I’ve eaten, I’m sure daddy made dinner, even my tummy is crying for you too. I don’t want to ‘do’ anything, but I can’t sit still either. So mostly, I sit on the bed, looking out the window and twiddling the quilt. This somehow passes the time, part of control. I can sit for hours, although I have no concept of time. The only difference I notice is when the sun sets over the rooftops, the street lights flicker on, and I know that it’s now time to get in bed. You see, if I go to bed before it gets dark it messes up what routine I do have. If I could stay in bed all day then I would, but I can’t, so darkness is the signal I wait for. I don’t really know what I expect from getting into bed, because it’s no different from sitting on it. I don’t sleep, I lay there twiddling the quilt, cuddling your teddy and thinking of you. When my shoulder starts hurting I turn over, then when that shoulder starts hurting I lay on my back. There is no relief from the relentless torture of knowing you are not in the next room sleeping soundly. It hurts, mentally, emotionally and physically. I don’t just miss you, I yearn for you, I need you. Every muscle and fibre in my body is screaming out to embrace you, feel your warm skin on mine, lose myself in your sweet smell when you bury yourself in my neck, just to love you, physically.

When I step over the threshold and stand on the carpet in your nursery it feels different. Different than any other carpet, I somehow feel rooted to the floor, the last room you ever saw. Your beautiful darkwood kub walda sleigh bed that mummy took so long to choose, making sure it was the right one and perfect for you. It’s beautiful, the wood almost warm to the touch. I sit on the floor hold on to the bars and peer through, I sat in this exact same spot the evening before you went to heaven, cradling you in my arms, soothing you with mummy’s touch, whispering in your ear and cocooning you in my love, you calmed down, you fell into a deep slumber in my arms. As I laid in bed last night, my body crying out for sleep but my mind not allowing it I got out of bed and walked into your room and I immediately feel a sense of calm, this is your sanctuary, your warm and cM osy safe haven. When daddy came to get you up in the morning you would be all sleepy, not quite awake and wanting to snuggle. You’d grab your little reindeer so as not to leave him behind, pop your thumb in your mouth, nuzzle into daddy’s neck and come into mummy and daddy’s bed for cuddles.

I feel trapped here without you. I don’t feel like this is my life anymore, it’s not the one I wanted, this is now a life sentence. A cruel existence. As every day passes I can feel myself detaching from life. I am physically the same person, but really I’m not. I feel no better today than a week ago, a month ago, or the day after I lost you. People treat me as if I am, if they asked themselves truthfully, they know that life isn’t any easier, but it is easier to talk to me as if it is, everything to me seems so petty, I am virtually irritated by everything. As everyone around me deal with their grief differently, I feel like I am bringing people down when they are having a good day, but I can’t help it. I’m not happy, I’m not jolly, I smile but it’s forced, i laugh but it’s fake. I don’t feel real without you Grumpus, I’m just stuck here without you, paralysed by my love for you.